


The Adventure of the Sphinx’s Riddle

by QMatchmaker888



Series: The (Mythology-Related) Adventures of Sherlock Holmes [1]
Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: ADHD Sherlock Holmes, Again, Alternate Universe - Demigods, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Alternate Universe - Percy Jackson Fusion, Canon Era, Case Fic, Demigods, Gen, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Mutual Pining, Victorian era, and not really a major part of the plot, between Holmes and Watson, idk how to tag this, its pretty light, it’ll probably be resolved in the sequel, just the way I wrote him, more tags to be added later, not really a big part of the plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:54:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23791147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QMatchmaker888/pseuds/QMatchmaker888
Summary: Holmes has a strange dream and starts investigating the deaths of two Scotland Yard detectives. Watson hears a prophecy and gets paid a visit by one of the Muses. Both of them learn something about their pasts.Basically an ACD Sherlock Holmes Percy Jackson AU. Mostly just a case fic with a few monsters, gods, and demigods. Some mutual pining between Holmes and Watson, but it’s not really the focus of the story.
Relationships: Mary Morstan & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The (Mythology-Related) Adventures of Sherlock Holmes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1713991
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	1. The Mysterious Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for any historical inaccuracies, grammar mistakes, etc. I don’t have a beta. Hopefully it’s not too terrible. Enjoy!
> 
> Edit: Oh, and I forgot to add, I plan to update this every Wednesday.

It was not often that Sherlock Holmes dreamed. Of course, it was not often that he slept for more than a couple hours at a time, so there wasn’t much of an opportunity for him to dream. However, on this particular occasion, Watson had insisted that he at the very least try to get 6 hours’ sleep after a particularly grueling case. For once, Holmes hadn’t argued.

  
As soon as Holmes had closed his eyes, he began to dream. He was in the sitting room of his childhood home, the only source of light the nearby fireplace. In the armchair where his mother had often sat when he was little, reading stories to him and his brother, there was a strange woman.

  
The woman was wearing a plain but high-quality grey silk dress and a pair of black leather boots that gleamed in the firelight. Her blond hair was held up in a bun by a pin with a jeweled owl on it. She was embroidering an image that he couldn’t make out onto a handkerchief, using some sort of bronze thread. There were no calluses, stains, injuries, or debris on her person that could tell him about her habits or profession. Her clothing was typical of a schoolteacher or perhaps a governess, but she held herself like a general.

The lack of stains and wear on the woman’s clothing indicated that her entire outfit was new, and though it was fairly simple and lacked most of the adornments typical of the upper class, it was high quality and fit well enough that it must’ve been tailored specifically for her. If Holmes had to guess, he would say that the hairpin was likely also custom-made, given the unique design.

  
So, likely this woman was fairly well off. The only question was why she was trying to dress plainly. Of course, this was a dream, and dreams rarely obeyed logic. This woman’s features were likely pieced together from a grab bag of Holmes’ memories. Any conclusions he drew from them would be pointless.

  
The woman had, by this point, noticed him. She was observing him with oddly familiar piercing grey eyes.

  
“Sherlock,” she greeted, gesturing toward the other armchair, “Do sit down.”

  
“Who are you?” Holmes asked, a bit more bluntly than he might’ve in his waking hours.

  
The woman’s face fell, as if she had hoped that he would recognize her.

  
“Who I am is not important at the moment,” she stated, “I’m here to warn you.”

  
“Warn me about what?” he questioned.

  
“You don’t know what dangers await you, my child,” the woman continued, still working on her embroidery, “You ought to have been told of your heritage much sooner. It’s too late for that now. You’ll have to learn as you go, I’m afraid.”

  
“What in the…” Holmes began. Then the whole room shook, and the fire spilled out from the fireplace onto the rug.

  
“Hush,” said the woman, standing up calmly, as though the room wasn’t slowly being consumed by flame, “I have to go. Please do be careful, I need you alive. When you next see your brother, tell him that you have seen me. He can explain.”

  
The room shook again. The fire was now completely surrounding them.

  
The woman paused, then continued to speak, sounding rushed, “Take this, you’ll need it.”

  
With that, she shoved the handkerchief she had been working on into his hand, then vanished into the smoke now filling the air. He barely got a second to glance at the image the strange woman had embroidered on the corner of the handkerchief as the flames consumed the room around him. It was a bronze sword, gleaming in the firelight as though it were real.

  
Holmes woke with a start. He rose out of bed and peeked through the curtains in his bedroom window. It was not yet dawn. He paced across the floor. The dream had unsettled him. There was no logical reason for it to affect him like this, it was just a dream, and yet…

  
He continued to pace. The sun rose, its light shining off the thick blanket of snow already coating London, and a new day began. Holmes could hear Mrs. Hudson retrieving the paper outside.

  
He hastened to get dressed. Perhaps today he could visit Watson. The doctor’s mere presence often cleared his mind, aiding his ability to find solutions to even the most convoluted riddles they had come across on the many cases that they had solved together.

  
As Holmes hurriedly folded his nightgown, a scrap of cloth fell out of its pocket. He picked it up, inspecting it. It was a handkerchief. Unfolding it, he breathed in sharply. It was the same handkerchief as the woman had given him in his dream. Embroidered in the corner was the same tiny bronze sword, stitched with such detail that it almost seemed real.

  
_No_ , he thought, _this was impossible_. There had to be some rational explanation, and he was determined to find it. He folded the handkerchief and put it in his pocket. Then he made his way out onto the street, hailed a cab, and went straight to Watson’s house, eager to tell the doctor of these strange events.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Holmes arrived at the Watson residence about halfway through Dr. Watson’s breakfast. Most would react with shock, or perhaps annoyance, at having their breakfast interrupted by an unexpected guest, but the doctor’s face lit up with delight upon Holmes’ arrival.

  
The sight of Watson smiling up at him made something inside Holmes’ chest swell. He shoved it back down. He knew perfectly well the romantic nature of his feelings towards his closest friend, just as he knew that those feelings were not reciprocated. Watson was a married man, after all. Some part of Holmes secretly hoped that his affections were returned, but the more sensible part of him knew that there was no use wasting time daydreaming about a chance so hopelessly slim.

  
“What brings you here this early in the day, Holmes?” Watson inquired, “Surely you don’t already have a new client?”

  
“Unfortunately not,” Holmes replied, “However, something fairly strange happened to me this morning, and I would be interested to hear your reaction.”

  
“As always, my dear Holmes, I am at your command,” Watson responded, “Mary is visiting a friend of hers in the country today, and my practice hasn’t been busy.”

  
Just as the detective was opening his mouth to begin to explain the strange dream and the mysterious appearance of the handkerchief, there was a knock on the front door. He could hear the maid answer it.

  
“Doctor Watson! There’s a telegram for you!” the maid called.

  
“I’m afraid I’ll have to wait a moment to hear your story, Holmes,” Watson said, looking apologetic, “this may require my immediate attention.”

“Of course, of course,” Holmes replied politely.

  
Watson called for the maid to bring the telegram to the dining room, where he and Holmes were sitting. As he read the message, the doctor’s eyes widened, color draining from his face. Then he quickly shoved the scrap of paper into his pocket and stood up.

  
Holmes knew his Watson well. The good doctor had nerves of steel, but he was clearly shaken by whatever news he had just received.

  
“I apologize, Holmes, we must continue this discussion another time,” Watson hastily explained, “I have just received word from a family friend…”

  
“No need to explain,” Holmes interrupted, “A family emergency, I suppose?”

  
“Right as usual, Holmes,” Watson replied, giving the detective a weak smile, “Hopefully it isn’t too serious, but I ought to pay my... brother a visit, just to be sure.”

  
Holmes filed the strange pause in Watson’s speech away for further analysis, and with that both Watson and Holmes donned their coats and exited out into the snow, each heading in opposite directions.


	2. Chiron’s Telegram

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for any mistakes. I’m still trying to figure out how the heck formatting works on this site. If you missed the edit I made on the Author’s Note for the last chapter, I plan on updating this every Wednesday.

Watson hurried towards the train station, the cold winter wind buffeting him, and the telegram in his pocket weighing so heavily on him it might’ve been lead. Upon arriving at the train station, he purchased a ticket for the first train heading north. He paced along the platform, unable to sit still in his agitation. Only once the train had arrived and he had safely boarded did Watson’s mind slow down enough to allow him to think the situation through.

The cause of his distress was the message that he had received this morning, just as Holmes had been paying him a visit. He had been elated to see the detective, as always. One of the things Watson had missed most since his marriage was the near constant presence of his dearest friend, but Holmes’ safety was well worth any sadness he felt at their separation. 

Watson was a demigod, and Holmes was mortal. The doctor hadn’t dreamed that their association would put his friend in danger, but when monsters started to show up at 221B Baker Street, he could hardly deny that it would likely be safer for both of them if he were to seek other lodgings. So, he had gotten married. Mary, as a daughter of Jupiter, attracted far more attention than he. Having another demigod to help each other out was an advantage for both of them.

Watson checked that the train compartment was empty, then took the telegram out of his pocket and smoothed it out on his knee. He read it to himself. 

_Return immediately, urgent news -Chiron_

The fact that the message was a telegram worried him. Chiron rarely sent messages to demigods that no longer attended Olympus Boarding School. Younger demigods were likely either at the school or on a quest, but for older demigods, Iris messaging would be out of the question, being too easily noticed by mortals if it appeared at the wrong time, even through the mist. If he did need to get word to any of his old students he usually sent a letter. Though telegrams would be delivered faster, they would also be viewed by multiple mortals in the process of being sent, so the wording had to be vague to avoid rousing suspicion. Chiron only ever sent telegrams if something was truly urgent.

The ex-army doctor glanced out of the train window at the scenery speeding past. Why did the school have to be so far from London?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The school was just how Watson remembered it. With the wrought iron gate, the looming main building, dorm rooms off to one side, and the stables off in the distance, it looked almost as though it were a perfectly ordinary boarding school. Of course, to think that is was actually a perfectly normal boarding school, you’d have to ignore the children practicing sword fighting on the front lawn, the nymphs and other nature spirits playing by the edge of the forest, and of course, the centaur on the front porch of the main building. Everything was covered with a layer of snow, including the aforementioned nymphs and children. 

Watson smiled slightly, recalling the years he had spent here in his youth. Then he hurried toward the porch.

“Chiron!” he called, holding up the telegram, “You said there was urgent news?”

“Indeed! But first, come inside,” the centaur greeted.

As soon as Watson was through the entryway, a small, loudly shrieking child who appeared to be about six or seven years of age flew out of seemingly nowhere and attached herself to Watson’s legs.

“Lydia! Mind your manners!” Chiron admonished. The girl detached herself and stood off to the side, looking at the floor sheepishly. “Dr. Watson, this is Ms. Lydia Clark. She’s quite a fan of your stories. She was very excited to find out that you were a child of Apollo like her.”

“Really?” Watson asked crouching down to Lydia’s eye level and holding out his hand for her to shake, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Clark.”

The girl looked up at him, beaming. She shook his hand.

“As touching as this is, we have important matters to discuss,” Chiron interrupted, “Follow me, both of you.”

The centaur walked down the hallway, his hooves clicking loudly on the hardwood floor. The two demigods trailed behind him. Watson watched as he opened the door to his study and Lydia raced inside, plopping herself down in the nearest armchair. The older child of Apollo followed her, sitting down in the armchair next to hers. Chiron went to the side of the desk opposite the two and turned to face them.

“There has been a new prophecy,” the teacher explained, “and we believe that it may be referring to you, Doctor Watson.”

Watson’s jaw dropped for a moment as he processed the information. Then he spoke.

“Gods, that’s…” He paused, not knowing how to conclude that sentence, “What does the prophecy say?”

Immediately Lydia began to recite the prophecy with the excitement of a small child that had been asked a question that they knew the answer to. Watson produced a small notepad from his pocket and scribbled down what she said.

“ _The son with no father holds the key_

_His Boswell alone through mist can see_

_Age old enemies turned friends now gone_

_Riddler’s shadow looms dark and long_

_A tangled web shall be revealed_

_It’s master wants the secret sealed_

_To Reichenbach three shall fly_

_One love true and one to die._ ”

“Does she…?” Watson questioned, turning towards Chiron.

“Have the gift of prophecy?” the centaur responded, “No. She’s just quite good at memorization.”

Lydia was grinning from ear to ear at the praise. Chiron smiled back down at her.

“It was actually Lydia who first realized that the “Boswell” line could be referring to you,” Chiron continued, “I sent you a message immediately.”

“Truly?” Watson replied, turning toward the younger demigod, “That’s quite impressive.”

“It wasn’t really,” the girl explained, still grinning, “It just reminded me of your stories.”

“Lydia,” Chiron said gently, “You did an excellent job. Now, you ought to go get ready for your archery lesson. I need to speak to Dr. Watson in private.”

“Yes, sir!” Lydia exclaimed, bouncing out of the room. There was an awkward moment of silence. 

“That girl has quite a lot of energy, doesn’t she?” Watson mused, “She reminds me a bit of myself at that age.”

“Indeed,” Chiron replied, “but we have important matters to discuss. Can you see through the mist? Completely and totally?”

Watson thought for a minute. Even demigods were often fooled by the mist. They could see through it better than most mortals, but it still made monsters appear normal until they attacked. He had never been fooled by this. He had only survived as long as he had because he always saw monsters for what they were immediately.

“I think so, yes,” the doctor responded.

“So I feared,” Chiron nodded gravely, “That makes it seem all the more likely that you are the one referenced in the second line of the prophecy.”

“What might the third line mean?” Watson wondered aloud, “ _Age old enemies turned friends now gone_?”

“I have no clue,” the centaur replied, a bit too quickly, although Watson didn’t notice. 

“The first line, _the son with no father,_ might refer to a young orphan, who never knew his parents, or perhaps a child born out of wedlock,” the doctor suggested.

“Practically all demigod children are born out of wedlock, yet most still have a mother and father,” Chiron pointed out, “and even an orphan would’ve had to have had a father.”

“Ah, well,” Watson sighed, “Prophecies rarely make sense until afterwards. I ought to get back to London.”

“I won’t keep you, but remember to be careful,” Chiron warned, “You know how important it is to take these things seriously.”

On the train ride back to London, the last line of the prophecy continued to echo in his mind. _One love true and one to die_.


	3. The Case Begins

When Holmes returned to 221B Baker Street, he had no time to ponder the strange events of the morning, as there was a client waiting for him. The stranger had clearly been talking to Mrs. Hudson, who had left just as Holmes entered. She was a fairly short woman, with mousy brown hair pulled back into a bun that looked as though it had once been neat, but had come loose. In her left hand she held a handkerchief embroidered with the letters “J.T.”. She wore all black, and her clothes were new, perhaps a week or so old at most, based upon the wear. Clearly this woman was recently widowed. She was too young for her husband to have died of natural causes. 

The widow stood to greet him. The detective could now see that, although she was keeping her composure admirably, her face was tear-stained. Something had come up as recently as today, then, likely related to her husband’s death, that caused her such distress and made her seek an outside opinion. 

“I apologize for intruding, Mr. Holmes,” the woman finally spoke, “I have come to you with a matter of much urgency. I am afraid that there may be lives at stake.”

Ah, the detective thought, the pieces were beginning to fall into place.

“I assure you, Mrs. Thompson, I take no offense at your intrusion,” Holmes replied, smiling slightly at the look of shock on her face, “Now do tell me what developments in the investigation of your late husband’s murder caused you to seek the help of an outside detective.”

“How…” Mrs. Thompson murmured, surprise still evident on her features. 

“Your husband’s death was reported in the papers. A policeman, Detective Inspector Oliver Thompson, stabbed to death a block away from his own home,” he recalled, “Your name appeared in the article as well. Based upon your clothing, obvious distress, and monogrammed handkerchief, it was a perfectly logical connection to make.”

The widow just nodded quietly in understanding. Holmes suddenly felt a pang of longing for Watson. If he were here, he would’ve praised Holmes’ deduction, with that look of wonder in his eyes that the detective so treasured.

“Very well,” Mrs. Thompson began to explain, “My husband had been investigating a case for some time when he was murdered. He told me little, fearing for my safety, but it was clear to me he had uncovered some large criminal conspiracy. He told me the morning before he died that he feared this case was not one he could solve alone, that it would lead to his death, but he was determined nevertheless to do his job, up until the very end. After his death, I followed the investigation closely. Being the wife of a policeman gave me contacts in Scotland Yard. It is through these contacts that I learned, before even the press, that the man in charge of the investigation, Detective Inspector Henry Fisher, was murdered just this morning, not 5 meters from Scotland Yard.”

“I shall make my way there immediately,” Holmes assured Mrs. Thompson, “Although I do have one question.”

“I will do my best to answer it,” the young widow replied.

“Why come to me?” he asked, “Surely even Scotland Yard’s dullest detective could see that whatever criminal gang your husband was investigating had him, and later Fisher, murdered to cover their crimes?”

“Indeed,” Mrs. Thompson nodded, “that is the general belief among those in the force. However, Scotland Yard is too slow in its investigations. I fear that not one of its detectives could get to the truth of the matter quickly enough to avoid the fate that befell my husband and Inspector Fisher.”

“I see,” Holmes replied, smiling slightly, “Thank you, Mrs. Thompson, for this intriguing problem. I’m afraid I must depart immediately for Scotland Yard. Time is of the essence.”

Watson would have found a way to quickly console and reassure the widow before they left, but Watson was not here, Holmes thought with another pang of loneliness. The detective dashed out the door and hailed a cab, all thoughts of the last night’s strange dream gone from his mind. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Upon Holmes’ arrival at Scotland Yard, he heard a familiar voice call his name. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was walking towards his cab to greet him.

“Holmes! What brings you here?” the Inspector cried, “I was just about to head to Baker Street myself. This is one of the strangest crime scenes I’ve seen.”

“A client informed me of the murder, although I know little of the details,” Holmes admitted, already making towards the corpse at a brisk pace.

“Watch your step,” Lestrade cried, causing Holmes to stop in his tracks, “There’s ice everywhere.”

Indeed, there were great patches of ice all over the crime scene, as though someone had been attempting to splash a moving target with water from a bucket. Possibly a clue, though it was difficult to imagine either a murderer with a knife or an experienced police officer attempting to fight with a bucket of water. Strangest of all, the corpse was not only surrounded by ice, but covered in it, and frozen to the ground. There was blood mixed in with the ice, making it evident that all the water had been liquid at the time of death. Frozen in the position in which it had died, the corpse appeared to be attempting to crawl towards the river. 

“Fascinating,” Holmes murmured.

“We haven’t been able to move the body,” Lestrade commented, “It’s frozen solid.”

In the snow banks that had built up beside the building, Holmes spotted the gleam of something metal. He rushed over, Lestrade trailing behind him. The consulting detective lifted a bronze dagger from the snow, inspecting it carefully. It bore some resemblance to the sword on the handkerchief he had found earlier, he noted.

“Inspector,” Holmes asked, “Have you ever seen a dagger like this?”

“I can’t say I have,” Lestrade replied, a curious expression on his face, “Do you think it could be the murder weapon?”

“Most definitely not,” Holmes responded sharply, “There’s no blood on it, nor the snow around it.”

“It could’ve been wiped clean,” the inspector said, defensive.

“I expect better of you, Lestrade,” was Holmes’ retort, “What sort of murderer would wipe clean the murder weapon, only to leave it at the crime scene, where it could be easily found?”

Lestrade did not reply. Holmes continued to scour the crime scene for clues, but there were none to be found. There were so many footprints made by police officer’s boots that it was impossible to tell which had been left by the victim and which had been left by the officers that had been investigating the death of their colleague. Aside from a few unusually large paw prints, all other footmarks had been obliterated by the now frozen water that had been splashed across the snow around the time of the murder. It occurred to the detective that the murderer may have deliberately splashed water across the crime scene to destroy the evidence. But why so haphazardly? And why not simply dump the body in the river, only a few meters away?

Having looked over the crime scene, Holmes took his leave and made his way back to Baker Street to puzzle over what clues he had.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

As Watson returned to London, the sun was beginning to set. After he got off the train, his feet led him to Baker Street, more out of habit than intent. Mrs. Hudson greeted him cheerfully upon his knocking at the door. He made his way up the seventeen stairs and into the flat that he had shared with Holmes to find the aforementioned detective reclining upon the sofa, holding an oddly familiar bronze dagger.

“Watson!” Holmes cried upon noticing his friend’s presence, “Have you ever seen a dagger like this?”

“No, I can’t say I have,” Watson replied, sitting down in his old armchair, “Is it for a case?”

“Indeed, and a most intriguing case at that,” the detective explained, eyes flashing with excitement, “This morning I received word that a policeman, Detective Inspector Henry Fisher, was found dead outside of Scotland Yard.”

Holmes then described the crime scene in great detail, from the ice to the body to the dagger which he held in his hands. Watson, more out of habit than anything else, got out his notepad and began taking notes. Strangely, for he usually hung on his friend’s every word, his mind wandered. The name Fisher had rung a bell in Watson’s memory, but he couldn’t quite place where he remembered it from. Finally, he spoke up.

“Did you say Henry Fisher?” the doctor interjected.

“Yes,” Holmes replied, “You know him?”

“His sister, Ada, is a close friend to Mary,” Watson told him. He didn’t mention that he had practically grown up with Ada at Olympus boarding school. She was a daughter of Neptune.

“Ah,” Holmes responded, unsure of what to say. 

Watson let out a yawn. It had grown late as Holmes had been explaining the day’s events. 

“It’s late,” Watson stated, then continued to speak with a pointed look at Holmes, “We really  _ both _ ought to get some sleep.”

The doctor stood up and made his way towards the door.

“My dear man, you are far too exhausted to go anywhere tonight,” Holmes pointed out.

“Are you suggesting that I stay here?”

“Your old room here is always open to you.”

Watson couldn’t bring himself to protest.


	4. The Bronze Dagger

The next morning, Watson awoke in his old bed. He could hear Holmes pacing in the sitting room. He got dressed, made himself presentable, and went to join him. While eating breakfast, the two discussed possible avenues of investigation for the case. 

“In all my time as a consulting detective, I have never once seen a blade such as this,” Holmes told his friend.

“I have an old colleague who collects weaponry,” the doctor suggested, “Perhaps we could pay him a visit.”

What he didn’t mention was that his friend, Bill Foldger, was a son of Vulcan. They had met at school.

“Excellent idea, Watson,” Holmes replied, “I am afraid I have yet to make a study of more unique weapons such as this. Such information shall doubtlessly prove invaluable.”

After finishing their food, the pair exited 221B Baker Street and hailed a cab that, on Watson’s direction, conveyed them to Foldger’s Antiques, a small, rundown shop filled to the brim with cobwebs and antique weaponry from various time periods, ranging from Ancient Greece to modern day. Upon their entry, a small bell rang, and a tall, muscular, balding man, who the doctor recognized as Foldger, entered from a back room.

“Ah! Dr. Watson!” Foldger called, “last I saw you, you were planning to join the Army!”

“And so I did,” replied Watson, who stepped forward to shake the shopkeeper’s hand.

“I hate to interrupt this happy reunion,” Holmes interjected, annoyance creeping into his tone, “but we are here on business.”

“Of course, of course. You must be Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” Foldger stated good-naturedly, “Forgive me asking, but what business does such an esteemed detective have with me?”

“Holmes found a dagger at a crime scene, and believes it may be of some importance in a case,” Watson explained while Holmes, unusually tight-lipped, pulled the dagger from his coat and passed it to Foldger. 

Foldger inspected the dagger carefully, examining it with several different magnifying glasses and hitting it with a few tools. Holmes paced in agitation. The doctor had no clue what on earth was bothering his friend. He seemed… distracted, which was very unlike him, especially on a case.

Then Watson noticed Holmes tense, glancing downward. It was subtle enough that he may not have seen it had he not been so close with the detective. He followed Holmes’ eyes to a spider on the ground by his foot. The detective then promptly stomped his foot down on the spider, grinding it beneath his heel. Watson was mildly surprised. His friend faced dangerous criminals on a regular basis. He didn’t think that he would be the sort to be afraid of spiders.

“Well, it’s in the style of an Ancient Greek weapon, and I don’t think it’s a replica,” Foldger began explaining, “It’s in remarkably good condition.” 

“ _ Ancient  _ Greek?” Holmes questioned.

“Yes, and it’s made with a special type of bronze that was thought to be able to kill monsters,” the son of Vulcan explained, giving Watson a pointed look on the word “monsters”.

The doctor gave Foldger a look that he hoped would get the shopkeeper to be a bit more careful. Holmes was both mortal and extremely observant. Luckily, the detective had resumed pacing and didn’t notice their brief exchange. 

“Aha!” Holmes cried, “come, Watson!”

Watson barely had enough time to thank Foldger for his help before he followed the detective out the door.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Where are we off to now, Holmes?” Watson asked his friend once it was apparent that their cab was not heading back towards Baker Street.

“We are going to pay a visit to Ms. Ada Fisher,” Holmes replied.

“Ms. Fisher?” the doctor questioned, confused, “Why?”

“Think, Watson!” Holmes cried, “I described to you how this dagger was encapsulated in the same ice as the rest of the crime scene. That means it either belonged to Henry Fisher, the murderer, or some unknown third party involved in the whole affair. As close as the two siblings were, and they must have been close, otherwise you wouldn't have made the connection, Ms. Fisher will likely be able to recall if her brother was in the habit of carrying an Ancient Greek dagger on his person.”

“If it turns out that the dagger wasn’t Henry’s then you can use it to help identify the murderer.” Watson said, eyes widening in understanding, “But if it did belong to the late inspector, Ms. Fisher may still have other useful information.”

“Exactly,” Holmes replied, a smile on his face. 

Watson felt his heart swell in his chest. He missed this easy camaraderie between them. Their friendship had fallen apart after his marriage, and he had spent the time since then trying to repair it, to regain what he had lost. Still, he didn’t get to spend nearly as much time with Holmes as he used to.  _ It’s for the best, for both of us _ , the doctor had reminded himself repeatedly, and yet it still felt like a knife in the gut.

After a minute or so, Watson’s mind wandered to thoughts that were, if not more happy, then certainly less sad. A Greek weapon for killing monsters. The idea seemed as though it should feel stranger than it did, but the more he thought about it, the less strange it was. Many Roman gods had once been Greek gods, after all. It made sense that monsters, too, would’ve existed before Rome, and the demigods from Greek myth would’ve needed weapons to fight them with. But why would someone from modern day fight with Greek weapons and not Roman? From what Watson knew, they were far more common.

Ada Fisher was a child of Neptune, and he had assumed her brother was, too. All demigods that he knew fought with imperial gold weapons. So why wouldn’t Henry Fisher? It was all a confusing mess that Watson felt that someone like Holmes alone could detangle, but Holmes was a mortal. He couldn’t get him involved in demigod affairs. That was why he had left Baker Street in the first place.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When they arrived at the residence where Ms. Fisher worked as a governess, Holmes strode up to the front door and knocked. A maid answered.

“I’m here to see Ms. Fisher,” Holmes stated.

“I’m afraid she’s unavailable at the present moment,” the maid replied, looking thoroughly startled at his abruptness. 

“This is rather urgent,” the detective pressed, “I need to speak to her about her brother’s murder.”

“She is unwell,” the maid insisted. 

“Perhaps I can help,” Watson offered, “I’m a doctor.”

The maid relaxed a little and nodded, letting them in. Watson recognized her from when he and his wife last paid Ms. Fisher a visit. No doubt the maid had recognized him. She led them through the house, into the governess’ rooms. 

There Ada Fisher was reclining in an armchair, deathly pale and grimacing in pain, with dark red blood was seeping through the white sheets clutched to her side.


	5. The Game is Afoot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m really sorry for posting this late, especially with the cliffhanger at the end of last chapter. I don’t even have a good excuse, it just completely slipped my mind yesterday.

Watson rushed to Ada’s side, opening the trusty medical bag he always carried with him. Wincing, the governess slowly removed the sheet from her side to reveal three large slash marks. They were deep, but not enough to damage any internal organs. The bleeding had (thankfully) slowed. He was able to clean, stitch, and bandage the wounds while Ms. Fisher talked with Holmes. Normally, he would also have given her ambrosia, but he couldn’t risk it with the ever-observant consulting detective in the room.

“You attempted to hunt down your brother’s killer yourself,” Holmes mused, questioning Ms. Fisher, “Why?”

“What?” the governess responded, clearly attempting to feign confusion.

“Your wounds are similar, and given the pattern of the murderer attempting to cover up previous crimes by killing those investigating them, it stands to reason that you were hunting down whoever killed you brother, then the killer attacked you,” the detective explained, “the only question is why you didn’t simply let the police handle it.”

“I feared that my brother had been killed by one of the unfortunately numerous criminal members of our extended family. I was correct,” Ms. Fisher stated, “I do not believe that the police are capable of capturing her.”

Watson looked up. It was clear to him that she was hinting that a monster had killed her brother, then attacked her. If that was the case, Holmes was in even more danger than he had realized. It would be useless to try to convince the detective to stop his investigation. He needed to find and kill whatever monster had done this before it could hurt his friend. 

“If you’re so eager to see this relative behind bars, then perhaps you would be willing to assist us?” he asked.

“Certainly, Dr. Watson,” she replied, “though I’m not sure how useful I can be.”

“First, Ms. Fisher,” Holmes interjected, producing the bronze dagger from his coat, “Do you recognize this dagger?”

The governess gasped, “That was Henry’s! Where on earth did you find it?”

“At the crime scene. Now, you must have seen your attacker. What can you tell me about her?” the detective asked.

“I do not know her name, and in any case, she will most certainly be using a false one,” she began to explain, “I did not recognize her specifically, and yet I knew her as a member of our family based upon what I’ve been told of her by my closer relatives. Her appearance correlates exactly. She had long, dark hair and wore a plain dress, but based on my investigations she is a master of disguise, only revealing herself once it’s too late. She is cunning, but also unstable. Be careful.”

“Thank you, Ms. Fisher,” Holmes said, turning to leave, “That will be of great use to me in solving this case.”

With that, Holmes left, no doubt to puzzle over the new information. Watson stayed behind for a minute to give Ms. Fisher a square of ambrosia. The wound closed, but remained pink and raw. 

“I must thank you, Dr. Watson,” the governess said, standing up slowly. 

“No need,” he replied, gathering his supplies to join Holmes outside.

“John!” Ada called. Watson turned around.

“Just so you know, the monster is a sphynx,” the daughter of Neptune told him.

“Thanks,” he said, “I’ll make sure to send it back to Tartarus.”

“You better,” she responded with a small smile.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Holmes spent that evening pacing around 221B, lit pipe in his mouth. He did not believe in coincidences. There had to be some connection. Why would a family member of Henry Fisher’s attack a different police officer? Perhaps they had been insulted by the fact that he had joined the police force instead of some other, possibly criminal, enterprise and decided to lash out, but then why target Oliver Thompson? The only connection between Fisher and Thompson was that they were both police officers and that they had each been investigating the same case just before they died. That case was important to the murderer, that much was clear.

The detective had read through all of both Fisher and Thompson’s notes and files the previous night. He had no doubt that the gang that they had been investigating had a part to play in their deaths. Most likely, the murderer was associated with the gang. 

The curious thing about the police investigation of this particular crime was that it had started with an anonymous tip, the timing and information of which made it clear that it had been written by someone with inside knowledge of the gang’s activities. Holmes felt sure that if the tip had been sent a day later, all that they would’ve found was a couple of petty thieves. Instead, the imbecilic Scotland Yard had stumbled upon what appeared to be just a branch of a much larger criminal network. 

By betraying such a powerful criminal organization, whoever tipped off the police had likely done so at great risk to themselves. They had to have had a good reason, but without more evidence he could hardly determine what it could be. Such a breach in security would be dangerous to any criminal organization. The leaders, whoever they may be, were likely putting a lot of effort into locating the traitor. As time went on, they would come closer and closer to the truth, and pressure on the traitor would increase. So why would the traitor remain anonymous to Scotland Yard? The police force, even as infuriatingly dull as they could be, would still be able to provide an additional measure of protection. 

The traitor must have had something to hide other than simply being a member of the criminal organization. They had no choice but to remain hidden and hope the police could root out the leaders of the criminal network before they got to them. Backed into such a corner, the traitor may have lashed out, killing Inspector Thompson out of frustration and impatience, or perhaps hoping that whoever took up the case after Thompson would be more competent. Then, when Inspector Fisher took the case, the killer murdered him to protect their identity, and later attacked Ada Fisher when she went to investigate.

It was a viable theory, given the evidence currently available. The next step was to try to identify the culprit. From there, the rest of the pieces would fall into place. Based upon Holmes’ deductions and Ms. Fisher’s description, the murderer was a woman related to the Fishers, Greek in appearance, with a violent temperament and enough skill with a knife that killing came naturally. Based on Ms. Fisher’s wounds, she likely wielded multiple small knives at once. She had to be close to the leaders of the branch of the vast criminal web she had helped expose, otherwise she would not have had access to the information provided in the tip. She had probably been following Thompson around, keeping tabs on the investigation. 

Based on Thompson’s notes, which had been given to Holmes by Lestrade, the murderer was likely a prostitute working at a brothel that had been frequented by several members of the thieves ring, which aligned well with Holmes’ own deductions. In the chaos surrounding the week’s events, the police had yet to close the foul establishment down. The detective immediately headed to Scotland Yard and searched the police files for a possible mention of the brothel. Then he found it. A woman who had worked there had gone missing. She had last been seen the day before Thompson’s murder. He had his lead. Now all he needed to do was set a trap.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

That same evening, at the Watson residence, the son of Apollo was drinking a glass of brandy, reading through a book of Greek Myths, and attempting to process the day’s events. It felt like he was missing the crucial detail or explanation that fit everything together into a good narrative. Usually, he could rely upon Holmes to provide the solution, but this time, he must come to the conclusion of this case before the detective could. He yawned. It was growing late. He began to doze off.

There was a woman standing by the fireplace. She wore plain clothes and a pair of spectacles that flashed in the firelight. She was carrying a couple large books, a notebook, and a pen. Watson stared at her for a second before realizing that he must have fallen asleep. 

“Dr. John Watson,” she stated, “Son of Apollo.”

The doctor watched the woman warily. Her face showed no hint of malice, nor any other emotion, but that was true of many he had met, monsters and gods alike. It was best to be cautious.

“Long ago, your father was close to my son,” she told him, “and because of that, he got turned into a flower.”

Watson recalled the story that his father had told him when he was fourteen, and had just started to realize that it wasn’t only the fairer sex that drew his eye, about how Apollo had fallen in love with a mortal man, who was then hit by a discus blown off course by the West Wind in a fit of jealousy. Apollo had turned the man into a hyacinth as he lay dying. The doctor hoped the goddess wasn’t the type to hold a grudge, or that even if she was, she wouldn’t take it out on him.

“Your son was Hyacinthus?” he questioned.

The woman simply nodded in reply, smiling sadly.

“My mother sent me to give you something,” she stated, placing a silver flask on the table, “that water is from her river. Drink it to regain the memories that you’ve lost. You’ll need them.”

“A river with the power to return lost memories… You’re a muse, aren’t you?” the doctor asked.

“I am Clio, muse of history,” she confirmed, “I have a gift from myself for you as well, but it must wait. Make sure to drink half of that water before you go to sleep tonight. That should be enough, and you may need the other half later.”

Watson glanced over at the flask. When he looked back up at Clio, she was gone. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When Watson awoke, he was still sitting in the armchair where he had fallen asleep. The flask from his dream was sitting on the table, glinting in the firelight. He picked it up. It was not wise to refuse gifts from the gods and from what he could recall, water from the River of Memory didn’t have any severe side effects. It was only used to treat extreme memory loss. The fact that the muse had advised him to drink some implied that there was something vitally important that he couldn’t remember. How much could he have possibly forgotten? Had something potentially wiped huge swaths of memory from his mind, without him having a clue? Shuddering at the thought, he drained the last of his brandy and poured about half the contents of the flask into his now-empty glass. He swirled the liquid around for a moment, looking at it introspectively. Then he gulped it down as quickly as possible, bracing himself for pain that didn’t come. To his relief, it tasted like regular water. Then he noticed a slip of paper on the table, right next to where the flask had been.

It read;  _ Your friend is in danger. Find him.  _ The message was followed by a street map of the area around Scotland Yard, with one intersection circled. Watson wasted no time in shoving both the paper and the flask in his pocket and grabbing his gun before quickly donning his coat and rushing off to find Holmes. He could only hope that he wasn’t too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who want to know, the water is from the River Mnemosyne, controlled by the goddess Mnemosyne, which some believed was a sixth river in the underworld. Followers of Mnemosyne believed that drinking from the river before you drank from the River Lethe to be reborn would allow you to retain your memories. Like basically all myths, this is only one version. I decided to go with it because I liked the idea. I’m trying to keep this in line with Riordan canon, just how I imagined things would happen in Victorian England, so I probably would’ve moved the river out of the underworld, but I didn’t really need to go into that much detail in the story. The thing about Hyacinthus being a child of Clio is also only true in some versions of the story, in some he’s just a regular mortal. Again, I liked the idea, so I went with it.


	6. Secrets are Revealed

Holmes’ plan was working perfectly. He had exited Scotland Yard first, turning onto a side street. Lestrade, as instructed, exited ten minutes later. The murderer had followed around the two officers previously on the case, eventually killing them. It stood to reason that she would now be following Lestrade. 

Holmes saw a figure emerge from a nearby alley, following the Detective Inspector, but always sticking to the shadows. This was his cue. He followed the figure as it trailed Lestrade, and when the time was right, he whistled. 

The inspector turned, and, as they had agreed upon, both men drew their guns. The figure stopped, realizing that she was trapped.

“Step forward and drop your weapons!” Lestrade called, “This will…” 

“I do not fear you,” the figure spoke in a startlingly deep, but still clearly female voice.

“We can offer you protection from your… associates,” Holmes offered.

“My, my, you have it all wrong,” the woman said playfully, her grin visible as she stepped out of the shadows and towards the amateur detective, “Here I thought children of Athena were supposed to be clever.”

Holmes had no clue what she meant by that. There was a glint of bronze as Lestrade drew a dagger similar to the one belonging to Henry Fisher. The woman noticed it too and turned around, lunging at the inspector. Lestrade had no time to react and immediately fell over, clutching his side, blood already seeping from underneath his fingers. Holmes fired his gun. The bullets found their mark, but there was no blood or cry of pain. 

Then the woman turned. As she did, she changed, or rather, the way Holmes saw her changed. Her body shifted into that of a lion, now steadily stalking towards him on padded feet. It had not been a knife that she had used to attack Lestrade, but instead a set of razor-sharp claws. A set of giant, feathered wings emerged from her back. Her face was the only part of her that hadn’t changed, although Holmes could now see that her grin was full of pointed teeth.

Holmes backed away, his mind spinning. Bullets had not harmed this strange creature, and he had no clue what might, aside from perhaps a bronze dagger like the ones carried by Fisher and Lestrade, but Fisher’s dagger had been returned to his sister, and the monster stood between him and Lestrade. He had no choice but to flee. It was only now he realized that the darkened alley behind him was a dead end. He cursed himself for not noticing sooner. There was nowhere to run. 

Some instinct told Holmes to reach his hand into his pocket. Having nothing else to do, he obeyed. Slowly and steadily, still retreating from the monster, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. It was the strange handkerchief from his dream. Oh well, he supposed he’d never get to solve that mystery now. He had always known there was a good chance he would die at the hands of some criminal, but he had never thought it would be quite like this. He wondered what Watson would feel upon finding out that he was dead. 

With his mind still whirring, Holmes absentmindedly rubbed his thumb over the sword embroidered on the scrap of cloth. Then, suddenly, he was holding the sword’s real life duplicate. After a moment of shock, he swung the blade at the creature. She ducked easily, then knocked the sword out of his grasp. It transformed back into a handkerchief.

Suddenly the sound of a gun firing pierced the night air. The monster dissolved into a cloud of dust. As it cleared, Holmes could see Watson, slightly out of breath, aiming his gun at the spot where the monster had been.

“Holmes!” Watson called, worry and fear evident in his voice, “Are you all right?”

“I am uninjured, thanks to your timely arrival,” the detective replied, picking up the handkerchief from the ground and taking a step towards his friend.

“Thank god,” the doctor sighed, obviously relieved, “I was afraid I’d arrive too late.”

“I am most grateful you appeared when you did, although I must admit that I am perplexed as to how you knew of my predicament,” Holmes prompted.

Watson opened his mouth as if to reply, then closed it again and shook his head. 

“I ought to check on Lestrade,” he finally said, avoiding Holmes’ query.

Lestrade, it turned out, would be fine; although he required assistance to stand. Instead of stitching the wound closed, Watson fed the Inspector a cube of some substance that Holmes didn’t recognize. It seemed to help Lestrade immensely. The three of them made their way towards the inspector’s apartment, where they bid each other goodnight, then Holmes and Watson headed back towards Baker Street.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Watson had been so relieved to see Holmes unharmed that he hadn’t quite realized what a strange situation he was now in. He sat in front of the fire in his old residence, trying to think how to explain this to his dearest friend. Holmes was the first to speak.

“How come the Sphinx wasn’t harmed by my gunfire, but it was killed by yours?” the detective asked.

Watson was shocked by Holmes’ statement. He knew the detective well, and though it seemed possible that a mortal, especially one as brilliant as Holmes, might be able to identify a monster based on legend alone, he had not known his friend to have any interest in mythology.

“It’s difficult to kill monsters with weapons made of ordinary metal,” the doctor explained, “I loaded my gun with bullets made of imperial gold.”

“Ah,” the detective responded, “I presume that it isn’t just sphinxes, out of all of the creatures from Greek Myth, that continue to exist into the modern day?”

“Correct as always, my dear Holmes,” Watson replied. 

The detective paused a moment, thinking. The doctor could practically see the gears in his friend’s head turning as he processed the new information. 

“Then is it also safe to assume that the gods, and presumably then their offspring, have also made their way out of Ancient Greece?” Holmes questioned.

“Indeed,” Watson responded with a soft smile. He had always taken pleasure in being allowed to glimpse the detective’s great mind at work. Another man might have broken down at their worldview being so completely upended, but Holmes had always been good at accepting when he was wrong, as infrequently as that occurred.

“You are a demigod,” the detective stated, in as uncertain a tone as Watson had ever heard him use, “A child of Apollo, if I’m not mistaken.”

“How on earth did you guess?” Watson cried. He had seen his friend work out seemingly impossible problems before, but he never ceased to be amazed by the great detective.

“You know my methods,” Holmes said, a grin emerging on his lips.

Watson simply sighed fondly, lighting a cigar. 

“I’d still like to hear how you came to the conclusion,” the doctor prompted.

“I know my Watson,” stated the detective simply, “You are clearly already well accustomed to this world of myth, the only question is how you knew of it, when the majority of the populace is kept unaware. The most obvious solution is you were yourself connected to Greek Mythology in some way or another…”

“Roman Mythology,” Watson interrupted.

“There’s a difference?”

“The gods changed with Rome’s takeover of Greece. The gods today better resemble the versions portrayed in Roman mythology.”

“Ah,” Holmes stated, “In any case, I know you well. You are no monster or god. You are the most sincerely human person I know, and you ought to know that I mean that as a complement. So, you being a demigod did seem to be the most logical solution. From there it was simply a matter of finding which deity from the Gr- er… Roman pantheon fit best.”

“Marvelous,” Watson murmured, and he felt that all the affection he felt for the man before him must be visible on his face. In the firelight he saw a faint blush rise on the detective’s checks.

The two men stared into the fire for a while. Holmes picked up his violin and started playing a slow tune, mournful, yet happy at the same time. Watson’s eyes began to slide closed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if the description of the sphynx is too different from the Percy Jackson books. I tried to make it similar, but it’s been years since I last read them. Watson’s memory hasn’t returned yet, but it will by the end of the story.


	7. Explanations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... a lot has been going on lately. This is a chaotic time for everyone and I hope that you’re all doing okay. I know that fanfiction can be a way for people to escape and distract themselves from bad things going on in their lives, it certainly has been for me, and I understand that many people will need that right now, so I do plan on continuing to update this fic. That being said, I feel that it would be a bit irresponsible of me to not at least acknowledge everything that’s been happening in the world right now. Just to make things clear, I fully support Black Lives Matter. There is something deeply wrong with any system that allows for tragedies like the murders of George Floyd and so many other people of color. This issue affects all of us. In the words of Martin Luther King Jr., “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere”. I am not the most qualified to speak on the topic of police brutality towards people of color, so I urge all of you to at the very least stay informed and try to learn about this issue, and if you are able, what you can do to help.

Holmes paced across the sitting room 221B Baker Street. The sun had just risen and was beginning to peek through the curtains. The detective took a deep breath. With the revelations the previous night had brought, he had a new theory to test. He drew the mysterious embroidered handkerchief from his pocket and ran his thumb over the intricate stitching. Instantaneously, he held a full sized gleaming bronze sword in his hand. Good. He had worried he wouldn’t be able to replicate the occurrence. He swung the sword a few times, checking its balance. Holmes was an accomplished fencer, but he had a feeling that not all of the skills from the sport would be applicable in more traditional sword fighting. Still, the sword felt natural in his hand, even more so than his foil. The detective then sat down on the couch, placing the sword on the floor in front of him. As soon as he let go of the grip, it reverted to its previous form, and he carefully placed it back in his pocket.

By the time Watson had come downstairs, Holmes had resumed pacing. He observed his friend eat the breakfast Mrs. Hudson had brought up an hour ago. An acute sense of longing welled up in the detective’s chest. His dearest friend, and the object of his affections, was eating breakfast in the next room, and yet Holmes missed him dearly. He only allowed himself a moment to reminisce, to think of the days before Ms. Morstan had come and Watson had left, before shoving it down.

“ _ Caring is not an advantage, _ ” Holmes recalled Mycroft’s voice, echoing the words of their governess, though in a much colder tone. 

Wait. That was it! Suddenly everything began to fall into place. The mysterious woman from his dream had been his and Mycroft’s governess when he was much younger. He briefly cursed himself for not remembering her. As much as he dreaded it, the only way forward was to speak to his brother. Thankfully, there was no chance of him being able to speak to Mycroft until that afternoon, so he had some time.

Just then Mrs. Hudson called out from downstairs, “Mr. Holmes! Inspector Lestrade’s here to see you!”

“Send him up Mrs. Hudson!” Watson shouted back before Holmes could reply, getting up to greet the guest.

Lestrade came in and accepted the doctor’s offer to sit down, after which Holmes and Watson took their usual seats. After exchanging the usual pleasantries, it was the Inspector who spoke first.

“Gentlemen,” he began, “I’m afraid we have a bit of a problem on our hands. The mortals still want answers, and I can’t just tell them that Inspectors Thompson and Fisher were murdered by a monster from Greek Mythology.”

“Indeed not,” Holmes murmured. He could understand well enough the potential consequences of the general populace suddenly becoming aware of the existence of mythological creatures.

“We could tell them what happened, leaving out the fact it was a Sphynx that was the murderer,” Watson suggested.

“I do find that the simplest solutions are often the best ones, however, there is no body, so we cannot simply close the case here,” Holmes pointed out, “I suggest that we chase after the criminal network the sphynx exposed. It seems likely that those involved will already have blood on their hands.”

“...Then we could close the case without inviting the death penalty on anyone who might otherwise have been spared! Brilliant, Holmes!” the doctor finished. Holmes felt a blush rise to his cheeks at his friend’s praise.

“It’s settled then,” Lestrade confirmed, tearing Holmes back away from his thoughts on Watson, “Can I count on your continued assistance?”

“Of course, of course,” Holmes assured the inspector absentmindedly.

Then he heard the familiar creak of the front door of the flat opening. Mrs. Hudson apparently had not noticed the newcomer. The three men stood up in alarm as she stepped into the sitting room. Holmes registered that both Watson and Lestrade had reached for their weapons, even as a dozen other thoughts raced through his head. Plain clothes, wire-rimmed spectacles, ink stains on fingertips… not to mention the notebook, pen, and textbook the intruder was carrying all spoke to her being a scholar. He quickly assessed that she posed no immediate threat. Watson also relaxed, though Holmes knew his friend wouldn’t have observed and analyzed the situation as quickly as he himself had, so likely the doctor recognized her. A quick glance at his friend’s expression confirmed his suspicions. 

“Gentlemen,” the woman spoke, “I mean you no harm.”

Lestrade visibly relaxed, though Holmes could tell he was still wary. 

“Clio,” Watson greeted the woman. The name was vaguely familiar from the stories told to him by his mother as a child, though it took Holmes an embarrassingly long time to place it. The muse of history. 

“Doctor Watson,” the muse responded with a small smile, “I see you heeded my advice.”

Holmes’ mind whirred. What advice? Was this how Watson had known that he was in danger last night?

“Without it I would have lost my closest friend, I thank you greatly,” the doctor replied with a glance towards Holmes.

“Do you still have the flask I gave you?” Clio asked.

Watson nodded, pulling a silver flask from his jacket and handing it to the muse, who then handed it to Lestrade.

“Drink this,” she ordered the inspector, who hesitated for a moment. 

“It’s safe,” Watson assured him, “It’s water from the Mnemosyne; it restores lost memories.”

Holmes watched Lestrade’s eyebrows shoot up, but the inspector took a hesitant swig from the flask regardless; he probably thought it unwise to disregard a goddess’s advice without good reason. 

“It takes a while to take effect,” the muse added, “You’ll only get a few flashes of memory at first, but eventually it should all return.”

“Great,” the inspector replied dryly, having finished off the contents of the flask, “Now would you mind explaining why exactly I have memories that need returning in the first place?”

“I was wondering the same thing, actually,” the doctor stated, “Water from the River of Memory only restores memories that were forcibly taken or buried. Why on earth would our memories have been taken? And by whom?”

“All in good time, gentlemen,” Clio told them, opening the textbook she was holding and beginning to search through for a specific page, muttering under her breath.

Holmes’ mind raced. He longed to be able to deduce everything going on around him, to untangle all the information he was taking in, but he knew it would be useless to try without more data. He had no clue how this world of myth ran. It would be dangerous to make too many assumptions.

In the meantime, Clio appeared to have found the page she was looking for. The muse set her book, open to some point near the end, on an end table.

“This is my gift to you,” she stated, “Use it wisely.”

“Thank you,” Watson answered respectfully, and with that, the visitor turned and left. 

Lestrade appeared to be a bit shocked by the gift. Holmes snatched up the book and began skimming the pages, keeping a note of the place the muse had flipped to. It appeared to be a textbook detailing the history of demigods. The page it had been left open on was the start of a section, titled “Greek and Roman Demigods”. Intriguing. 

“My dear man, would you do us the pleasure of reading this aloud?” Holmes asked the doctor, handing him the book. 

Watson only nodded in reply, before beginning to read. “When the gods moved from Greece to the Roman Empire, they took on new attributes, as they do with every change of location. However, in this instance, the gods split into two separate forms, Greek and Roman, similar to epithets. These forms have many differences, which often carry over into their offspring. The gods’ move from Greece to Rome is also unique in that it is one of the few moves with the level of conflict between the old and the new locations. Because of this, Greek and Roman demigods seldom get along. Many documented conflicts throughout history were the result of fighting between these two group of demigods. Such conflicts harm Olympus, so after the American Civil War, the gods decided to permanently separate the Greek and Roman factions, making use of the mist and memory suppression. Initially, this effort was limited to North America, but the gods were eventually forced to separate their offspring throughout the world.”

“Well, that explains some things,” Lestrade interrupted, looking, if possible, even more shell-shocked then he previously had.

Holmes noted that Watson, too, looked as though the world had been upended. 

“Indeed,” the doctor replied, setting the book back down on the table, “It makes perfect sense!”

“I was certain I knew every demigod in London, there are so few of us after all…” Inspector Lestrade mused, “I was shocked to find that you were also demigods. I would wager that you’re Roman?”

“I’m the son of Apollo, the Roman version, though the names are the same,” Watson stated, “I don’t know about Holmes.”

Both Lestrade and Watson turned towards him expectantly. Holmes had thought it possible, upon learning that Greek and Roman mythology were real, that he was a demigod, given all available evidence, though he frustratingly still didn’t have enough data to either prove or disprove the notion.

“I have absolutely no clue,” the detective responded, at a loss for what else to say.

“I don’t know who my godly parent is either,” Lestrade replied sympathetically, “I was never claimed. Stayed in the Hermes dorms my entire time at school.”

“Claimed?” Holmes questioned.

“Some demigods, like Dr. Watson, will be claimed by their godly parent. Many never are. Unless you’re claimed, there’s no way to know where you belong, so you stay with Hermes’ kids,” the inspector answered, clearly a little stunned at Holmes’ lack of knowledge.

Holmes assumed the dorms Lestrade had mentioned were part of some sort of demigod school system. He had already deduced that such a thing might exist, after all, the few demigods he had encountered all seemed to know each other, and where else would children of the gods encounter each other and gain the skills to fight monsters?

“Apparently, I have much to learn,” Holmes stated, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must begin my research as soon as possible.”

He stood up, stretching, then grabbed the book Watson had set down.

“Ah, well, I should be off,” Lestrade politely excused himself.

Holmes proceeded to drape himself over his chair to read. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his doctor smile at him fondly. He ignored it. Now was not the time to pine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn’t decide who Lestrade’s godly parent should be. Comment below if you have any ideas. If I see any suggestions I like, I might work them into later fics.


	8. To Be Continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is almost a week late. I had it written and everything, I just forgot to upload it. Well, that’s ADHD for ya. This is the last chapter. I’ve already started writing the next story in this series, but it’s still in the “figuring out the plot” phase, so it’ll be awhile before I post the first chapter.
> 
> Edit: (Dec. 26, 2020) The sequel to this is almost done! I typically write the whole story out in advance and then edit each chapter the week it comes out, to make things easier on myself. I plan to post the first chapter of the sequel the week after winter break, so sometime in early January.
> 
> Edit: (Jan. 19, 2021) The first four chapters of the sequel have been posted! I should’ve added this earlier.

Sherlock Holmes knew his brother’s habits well, and so he knew that the soonest he would be able to talk to Mycroft was that afternoon, when the elder Holmes would go to the Diogenes Club, as he did every afternoon. Unfortunately, this meant that there were several hours until he could get the answers he needed. 

He attempted to pass the time by reading the textbook that Clio had left, but he absorbed the relevant information quickly; getting rid of the useless facts, which were plentiful. After two hours of reading, he was sure he had extracted every possible piece of useful data from the book. By this point, Watson had returned home, and so the detective found himself alone once more. He shuffled through case files, practiced his fencing, and reviewed the results of recent chemical experiments in an attempt to pass the time, all to no avail. Thankfully, Holmes only had to wait an hour, not a week, or he might have gone insane out of sheer boredom, or else fallen into one of his “dark moods,” as Watson referred to them. Eventually, the hour did pass, and Holmes eagerly rushed to the Diogenes Club to meet his brother. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Mycroft had just arrived at his club when his younger brother showed up to see him. This was not altogether unusual as Sherlock knew his schedule, had a tendency to be fairly impatient, and did occasionally require his assistance, but it was annoying nonetheless.

With a deep sigh, he instructed the butler to let his brother enter.

“What is the trouble  _ this time _ , brother dear?” Mycroft asked, exasperated, as his younger brother entered the room and began to pace.

“You remember Ms. Campbell, correct?” Sherlock questioned.

“Of course,” he replied, a bit surprised, “Though I am astonished that you do. You were barely six years old when she left.”

“Then you also recall the lessons in Greek Mythology we received from her and our mother?”

Oh dear. Sherlock was beginning to figure it out. It was obvious he didn’t have all the relevant information yet. It was clear enough that while he suspected Ms. Campbell was more than she seemed, he didn’t yet know that she was also their mother. Mycroft thought for a moment. Hiding the truth now would serve no good point. He knew his brother, and Sherlock would not stop until he knew the full story.

“Naturally,” Mycroft responded coolly, “Given the world we live in, a good understanding of the classics is a necessity.”

He could tell his brother was now fully certain that he knew about the existence of the world of Greek Myth.

“What mythological figure would you say Ms. Campbell was most similar to?” Sherlock asked.

“Athena,” Mycroft replied in a heartbeat. He noted, with some satisfaction, that his brother hadn’t been expecting that answer.

“Brother dear,” the elder Holmes brother continued after a moment of quiet, “I find it difficult to believe you have come to speak with me simply to ask pointless questions about the governess who left when you were six, and, as you know, I am a busy man. Would you please get to the point of your visit?”

“Very well,” Sherlock responded, “Neither of us are entirely mortal, are we?”

“Most certainly not,” Mycroft said, allowing the ghost of a grin to flicker across his face.

“Then who, may I ask, was our father?” Sherlock asked. 

It was an unspoken fact, known not just by the brothers, but by most that had been around them growing up, that Siger Holmes was clearly not their biological father. Neither Mycroft nor Sherlock bore any resemblance to the man, both instead taking after their mother, Violet, in both appearance and intellect. This only served to add to the scandal that had already surrounded the Holmes family; Mycroft had been born just five months after Violet and Siger Holmes had gotten married, and by the time Sherlock had come along, the couple were so distant that the maids had come to a general consensus that one of them  _ must _ be having an affair. Siger’s hatred of these rumors only lent them further credulity. Much to the chagrin of the local gossips, however, no one could point to any likely theory as to who the actual father of the Holmes children was. 

“We never had one,” Mycroft replied. 

“Mycroft, when I was born you were eight. Even then I know you were far more observant than most adults,” Sherlock cried in a tone of impatience, “You can’t tell me you didn’t notice an affair that everyone knew must have been happening!”

“I never said anything of the sort,” the elder Holmes brother responded, now slightly annoyed, “I simply stated that we never had a father. Our mother’s affair was with Athena.”

Mycroft watched as realization dawned on his brother’s face.

“They must have met before… then Athena returned… but why? Why would Athena return to our mother and teach you personally?” Sherlock asked, “There are schools for demigods, and the Gods clearly pay minimal attention, at best, to their children.”

“I never knew,” replied Mycroft, a bit peeved that his brother had managed to ask the one question he never knew the answer to, “For obvious reasons, gods are particularly difficult to deduce.”

“You’ve still known we were demigods since we were children,” Sherlock said, tone turning a bit bitter, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“When you were a child?” the elder Holmes responded, “You blurted out every word that came into your head. Mother forbade me from telling you, first out of fear you might let something slip, then because she worried about how you might take it.”

“I see,” Sherlock replied icily.

“Now, if you’ve had quite enough of questioning me, would you be so kind as to take your leave?” Mycroft suggested, “I’ve had a trying day.”

“Gladly.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Later that evening, in a different part of the city, Watson sat at his desk, looking through old papers. If the gods had relied only on memory modification and the mist to separate the Greek and Roman demigods, he hoped he might be able to find some evidence of the memories only now just returning to him. It all felt so dreamlike, having names and faces and experiences come back to him piece by piece, jumbled up and out of order; he just needed to make sense of it all. 

He picked out an old wooden box he had found along with the rest of his memorabilia from his school years. He couldn’t remember what he had kept in it for the life of him. A puff of dust came out of the box when he opened it, making him cough. The box appeared to be filled with letters. They were written in two separate hands, neither of which Watson recognized. He picked up the letter on the top of the pile and began to read.

_ Dear John,  _

__ _ I am glad to hear that you’ve been doing well. It has been two months since you and Silas went home for the summer, and I miss you both dearly. School is rather less enjoyable without your company. I would’ve written to you sooner but I’ve been caught up in a new project I’ve started. Claudia is as nice as ever and has agreed to help me with the metalwork components. I’m attempting to make a portable telegraph machine. I know it seems superfluous, what with Iris messaging and all, but I think it could be quite a breakthrough! I’m not using any magic in the device, so if I can get it to work right then mortals could use it too. I got the idea reading this paper I found in the library titled “ _ A Dynamical Theory of the Electromagnetic Field _ ”. I’ll spare you the details, but basically my device sends out a signal in the form of electromagnetic waves, then another device reads it. I’ve managed to send a message from one side of the house to the other, but I keep running into problems. I’ll try to explain it better when I see you next.  _

__ _ Last night I had another dream of my mother. This is the sixteenth one this year. I think something big is going on. As you know, she has never paid this much attention to me. In each dream she becomes more and more… I don’t know. I don’t want to call her desperate, but that’s how she seems. In every single dream she just paces and rambles about running out of time and having to come up with a plan without enough information. I wish I could do something to help. Have you heard anything from your father about what might have my mother so upset?  _

__ _ Anyway, be sure to write back, I miss you. I hope Harry hasn’t been ruining your summer. _

__ _ Your friend, _

__ __ _ Minnie _

_ P.S. Remember our discussion in May. You promised to tell Silas by the end of the summer.  _

It felt like pieces of a puzzle fitting together at last. Minnie. Silas. They had been his friends at school. Minnie had been the daughter of Athena, though she had always spent more time with the Hephaestus kids. Silas… Silas was the son of Demeter. An image of his face flickered through Watson’s mind. Sandy blonde hair, stunning green eyes, perpetual farmer’s tan, even in the winter. Watson remembered feeling drawn to him, his eyes, his laugh… he remembered feeling deeply ashamed about his feelings. He remembered praying to his father’s guidance. He remembered his father’s response. He had told him (in a dream of course, Watson had never once seen his father in person) about the many relationships he had had with mortal men over the millennia, expressing confusion as to why his son would feel ashamed. It had taken a while to work through, but eventually Watson had accepted it. 

The doctor leaned back in his chair, overwhelmed by the weight of it all. He heard the front door open and the maid welcome Mary home after her trip. He sighed, putting down the letters and going to greet his wife.

“John! I trust you’ve been doing well in my absence?” Mary inquired.

“I’m fine, although Holmes got himself into a bit of trouble,” John replied, “A lot has happened. We need to talk.”

Mary nodded, her expression growing serious. 

“Just let me put my bag down…” she said, giving her luggage to the maid, “Take this to the bedroom.”

Doctor Watson then led his wife to his study, where he explained the events of the past few days as best he could.

“Gods, that’s… how could the Gods do something like that? Make demigods forget each other?” Mary muttered.

“I don’t know,” John replied, “What do you make of the prophecy?”

“ _ The son with no father holds the key _ ,” she quoted, “probably refers to a demigod child with two female parents. Think about it. The gods have been known to have children with mortals of the same sex.”

“Of course!” John exclaimed, “I think the fifth and sixth lines, ‘ _ A tangled web shall be revealed, It’s master wants the secret sealed,’  _ must refer to the the criminal organization the sphynx uncovered.”

“That would seem to fit, yes,” Mary replied, “Especially since it’s right after the line about the sphynx. Speaking of which, the encounter happened yesterday, on the winter solstice, correct?”

John nodded. He had forgotten that the solstice had been yesterday.

“Then I’d say the bit about the ‘Riddler’s shadow’ has definitely already happened,” Mary continued.

“Right,” John said, “The part about the shadow must be referring to the time of year. At the winter solstice, the sun stays lower in the sky, so shadows are longer,”

“The last four lines of the prophecy sound like perhaps the leader of this criminal organization will force whoever’s uncovering his misdeeds to flee, and then kill someone,” Mary observed, sounding worried, “Is there any chance of keeping Holmes from investigating?”

“Not in a million years,” John replied, “and even then, nothing we could do could stop the prophecy from unfolding.”

That evening, both the Watsons slept fitfully, knowing something disastrous was about to unfold.


End file.
